


Finding Eurydice

by ras_elased



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-04
Updated: 2007-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Eurydice

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this will probably get Jossed as soon as the season 3 premier airs (and I'm just under the wire!) but this is my version of how Dean's last year will play out. I wasn't even planning on writing this, because in my head, this is a giant, 40,000 word epic (including a B-story involving my pet theory about how Sammy was actually meant to be the Antichrist but his love for Dean prevented it), but there just isn't enough time to complete a monstrosity like that before the premier. But there is something about this idea that just wouldn't leave me alone, so, this is the boiled down version, which actually is less boiled down than I intended. Also, this is only a part of the complete story that's in my head, so I ended it where I think the season 3 finale would end, which is a bit of a cliffhanger. I may write a sequel to this, maybe. Or I might not. Title and slight misquote at the end are from the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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nervous  
  
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**Entry tags:**

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[fandom: spn](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fandom%3A%20spn), [fic: finding eurydice](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20finding%20eurydice), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [pairing: sam/dean](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20sam%2Fdean), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
  
Title: Finding Eurydice  
Author: Ras Elased  
Rating: NC-17  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Spoilers: up to AHBL 2  
Warnings: Character death, Wincest  
Wordcount: ~8700  
Summary: _"You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."_  
  
Notes: Okay, so this will probably get Jossed as soon as the season 3 premier airs (and I'm just under the wire!) but this is my version of how Dean's last year will play out. I wasn't even planning on writing this, because in my head, this is a giant, 40,000 word epic (including a B-story involving my pet theory about how Sammy was actually meant to be the Antichrist but his love for Dean prevented it), but there just isn't enough time to complete a monstrosity like that before the premier. But there is something about this idea that just wouldn't leave me alone, so, this is the boiled down version, which actually is less boiled down than I intended. Also, this is only a part of the complete story that's in my head, so I ended it where I think the season 3 finale would end, which is a bit of a cliffhanger. I may write a sequel to this, maybe. Or I might not. Title and slight misquote at the end are from the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Also a huge shout out to [](http://aphelant.livejournal.com/profile)[**aphelant**](http://aphelant.livejournal.com/) for her speedy beta skills and for trying to tame my liberal use of commas. Thanks hon! *g*

And because there's no end to the many ways I find to procrastinate, here's a simple [coverart](http://i105.photobucket.com/albums/m223/ras_elased/eurydicecoverart1.jpg) I made. (Contains spoilers for fic!)  


  
~

_"You sacrifice everything for me, don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this."_

~

Desperation makes people do crazy things. Sam's heard stories about people lifting trucks to save a trapped loved one, of single mothers becoming prostitutes just to put food on the table, of junkies who kill complete strangers to score their next hit. Hell, desperation made Dean sell his soul to a demon in exchange for Sam's life.

Desperation has made Sam do some crazy things, too.

He's lied. To strangers, to friends, to _Dean._ Everything he's done has been behind Dean's back, because Dean _can't_ know. Any knowledge of Sam's actions on Dean's part could be twisted, could be seen by the Demon as trying to break their deal. But also because if Dean knew some of the things Sam's done, the price he's willing to pay for Dean's life, he'd say the price is too high.

So Sam lies. He turns his back on his friends, on Bobby, Ellen, Jo, good people who wouldn't understand, who _can't_ understand the lengths he's willing to go in order to keep Dean safe.

Sometimes Sam finds it ironic. They've both hunted their whole lives but Sam's always considered Dean the killer. Dean's the one who will pull the trigger on another human being when he needs to, while Sam's the one trying to talk him out of it or moralize the situation. The first time Sam kills, he isn't scared, and he doesn't flinch, and that's maybe the most terrifying aspect of the whole thing. He just looks at Jake, knows, _knows_ that Jake killed him, knows what Dean did to bring him back, and it makes Sam sick inside that he didn't kill the motherfucker when he had the chance. Something dark claws its way up from Sam's gut and this time he doesn't hesitate. It's easy.

The next day, Sam figures out how to move things with his mind.

Sam kills again, first in defense (a man holding up a gas station with Dean inside) and then in cold blood (he gets a vision of Gordon coming after Dean when he escapes from jail, so Sam tracks him down to a nearby motel and coolly puts three rounds in his chest before he even wakes up). Through it all, his powers grow, but so does that dark something coiled inside him, waiting to dig its talons into the back of Sam's brain. He knows what it means, remembers that he can only unlock more powers when he gives in a little bit more to the darkness, but he can't help thinking that there could be good in this, that he might be able to use his powers to save Dean, so he can't bring himself to let them go. He hides them from Dean when he can, but he knows Dean suspects.

Dean's always had a blind spot as far as Sam's concerned, so Dean doesn't look at him any differently. He's still himself, after all, still _Sam_. He just knows what he's capable of now. At least, he knows _some_ of what he's capable of, because as the days count down, one by one, desperation makes Sam realize just how far he's willing to go.

Somewhere along the way, as they hit dead end after dead end after dead end, Sam stops noticing days of the week, then dates, and he starts thinking in terms of numbers. On Day 136, he visited the last mystic in Dad's journal, who just shook her head when he asked for help. On Day 207, Sam nearly took a bullet for Dean and got lectured for three solid hours, because 'Why did I bring you back if you're just gonna pull stupid shit like that?' On Day 312, Sam visited a Hoodoo priest and bought all the goofer dust he had...

Sam still prays everyday. How can he not, with all he's seen, with all he's _done?_ Sam survives on hope, the hope that there's more than just evil out there. Because without something bigger—without _Dean_—to pull his ass from the fire, he doesn't stand a chance. If it's just Sam against the darkness, the darkness wins.

On Day 358, one week before Dean's bill comes due, Sam spends almost all day praying. God created the world in seven days. Surely in seven days He can keep it from ending.

That night, Sam still spreads goofer dust under the door and windows, just in case.

On Day 360, Sam notices Dean will sometimes pause mid-sentence before continuing on like nothing happened. He starts faltering for a half second, barely noticeable, before turning a corner. Sam's ashamed to admit that it takes him nearly two full days to figure it out. Dean won't admit it, he's still so damn worried about protecting Sam. But by Day 362 Sam's learned to recognize when Dean can hear the hellhounds.

They spend most of Day 363 on the road. Sam feeds Dean directions as he navigates aimlessly on sketchy back roads and wide open asphalt. Sam doesn't have a destination in mind, aside from north, up, _away_. Away from the cloying heat that seems to stick to the outside of the Impala, to Sam's skin, to the inside of his lungs, making it feel like he's slowly suffocating, drowning from the inside out. He sits in the passenger seat and stays silent for the entire drive, and even though the temperature drops a few degrees with each hour they spend on the road, the cooler air doesn't ease the pressure on his lungs.

Sam watches Dean all day. He watches Dean drum his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the mix tape that's been looping so many times it's become white noise. He watches the angle of light play across Dean's face as the sun moves east to west, slowly illuminating Dean's face from all directions, and Sam hates that he finds himself memorizing each one. When the sun sets he watches the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up as the chill night air fills the car.

Even when they finally stop for the night Sam doesn't stop watching him. They haven't spoken to each other all day, and Sam feels the weight of unsaid words heavy on his tongue. He doesn't sleep, even after Dean finally drops off and his soft snores begin filling the room. He lies there for hours watching Dean's silhouette, body held tense even in sleep. The stillness presses in on him like a living thing, stealing his air. When he can't stand it anymore, he slips quietly from the room and heads into the night, towards the Impala, gun held loosely at his side.

He sits in the passenger seat and just looks at the gun for a while, rubbing his thumb over the cool metal and slick mother-of-pearl handle. He doesn't know how long he sits there with the windows open, breath frosting in the bitter autumn air, but by the time he makes his decision his cheeks are hot under the flow of his tears and his hands are shaking. He pushes the cold muzzle of the gun past his lips. It tastes like that time in kindergarten when he swallowed the nickel he found on the playground, just because the school bully threatened to take it. Dean found out and started teaching him to fight the next day.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his thumb on the trigger. He has the fleeting, vaguely hysterical thought that Dean's going to kill him for making a mess in the Impala, and then—

And then the gun is being pulled from his mouth, from fingers gone suddenly icy and numb. Dean nearly rips the car door off its hinges, his eyes blazing and wild and scared. Sam doesn't think he's ever seen Dean afraid before, didn't really think he ever _felt_ fear.

Then Dean's hands are on Sam's face, like steel and fire, and he says, "I swear to God, Sammy, it would take me less than two minutes to follow you just so I can kick your ass." Dean's voice catches, collides with something in Sam's chest, and just like that, Sam breaks. He fists the sleeves of Dean's t-shirt and collapses against his brother like a puppet with his strings cut. Dean holds him while he sobs and shakes, babbling wetly into Dean's neck all the words he's been holding back, about how he doesn't know what to do, how to save him, and it's not enough, never enough, and he can't do this alone, he _can't._

Dean half drags, half carries Sam back to the room. Sam won't let go, but Dean doesn't even try to pull out of Sam's grip, he just settles on the bed beside Sam, clinging back just as tightly. Sam never regains control of his emotions before exhaustion starts to take hold, and he's so wrung out that he accepts the false promise of peace sleep offers. As he starts to drift off, Dean mumbles thickly into Sam's hair, "Promise me you won't do anything stupid when I'm gone, Sammy."

Dean's words are like cold iron in Sam's stomach. "Dean—"

"Promise me."

Sam swallows. "I promise," he says, though the words give him a physical ache as he forces them past his too dry throat.

Before he falls asleep he wonders if they're another lie.

Sam wakes Dean early on Day 364. He's jittery and anxious to get on the road, to _run_, and he's manhandled Dean halfway to the shower before his brother plants his feet and says, "No, Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he's okay with that—no shower means they can get on the road faster. He tosses Dean a fresh shirt and tells him to hurry up. It isn't until Sam is halfway through tying his shoes that he looks up and sees an expression on his brother's face like carved granite and understanding flashes white-hot down his spine. "Dean," he says carefully, struggling past the waver in his voice, "get dressed."

Dean's fists clench on the wadded up shirt. "I can't. I'm sorry."

And just like that Sam feels like he's falling off a cliff, like the wind is rushing by his ears, filling his head with too much noise, and he's just waiting to get smashed to pieces on the rocks below.

"So, what? You're just gonna sit here and wait for the hellhounds to come take you? That's a hell of a plan, Dean," Sam bites out, suddenly furious.

"It's the _only_ plan," Dean snaps back calmly, making it clear that the argument is over. But Sam's not finished.

"No, Dean, that plan sucks!" Sam counters. "Why did I spend the last year trying to find a way to fix this if you're just gonna lay down and—" The word catches in Sam's throat, and it's a moment before he can speak again. "What does it accomplish?"

Dean doesn't meet his eyes. "This puts things right. If I'd died like I was supposed to, Dad would still be here. _Dad_ could have saved you."

The quiet conviction in Dean's voice only ratchets up Sam's frustration. "God, would you stop playing the fucking martyr of this family for once in your life?" he shouts.

Dean's eyes snap to his in outrage. "You think I wanted this, Sammy? You think I _want_ to go to Hell?" Dean shouts back. Sam doesn't actually say 'yes', but the word is right there on the tip of his tongue. Dean seems to sense it, and his voice goes low and angry. "You think what you want, but I'm gonna die, Sam. That's all there is to it. Now it's best if you just accept that and move on."

Sam huffs a sarcastic laugh to blot out the sudden tightness in his chest. "Yeah, like you did with me?"

Dean doesn't say anything, but the look on his face is answer enough.

Sam presses his lips into a thin line and barely holds back an angry snarl. After a moment, he spreads his arms wide. "Fine!" he says hotly, a challenging tilt to his head. "Fine, you want to stay here, we'll stay here. But you're not leaving this room."

Dean looks like he wants to protest, but after a few tense seconds he throws himself down on the bed and says, "Fine."

"I'm serious, Dean."

Dean doesn't meet his eyes as he growls, "I said fine, Sam!"

Sam isn't satisfied, but he knows further argument would be useless at this point. Instead, Sam digs out his salt and goofer dust and sets to work. He can feel Dean's eyes boring a hole between his shoulder blades as he pours a ring of protection around the room, lining each wall with a small mound of goofer dust first, then salt. He double checks to make sure it's a solid ring, that there are no gaps in the lines to break the ward of protection over the room. He glances over and sees Dean stubbornly pretending not to watch him, and Sam wonders briefly if it would protect or harm Dean to make him _eat_ some of the goofer dust. Then he grabs a plywood and vinyl chair that looks like it's seen better days and drops it with an angry clatter facing the door, away from Dean. He takes out his gun, checks the clip, and settles down in the chair, prepared to stand guard over his brother, whether he likes it or not. Anything trying to get in (or out) of that door is going to have to go through him first.

The day passes both too slowly and too quickly. Sitting still with the Demon coming for Dean makes Sam feel like there's an itch that he can't scratch, crawling just under his skin. Their lives have always been about this, about hunting down evil things, salting and burning them off the face of the earth. It feels wrong not to fight, not to be at Dean's side backing him up while he plugs whatever's after them full of rock salt and metal.

Because he's not fighting. Dean is _not fighting_ and Sam's world is tearing apart at the seams.

He hears Dean get up and shuffle around the room periodically throughout the day, digging for snacks, messing with the tv, going to the bathroom (and Sam knows the window there is too small for Dean to crawl through, so he lets Dean close the door) and all the while Sam stubbornly keeps a wary eye on the motel door, his back to Dean. A small part of himself grudgingly acknowledges that all he really wants to do is curl up with Dean and hold him like he did last night, to reassure himself that Dean is real and solid and alive, and to cling to that until he can't anymore. But that would feel too much like admitting defeat, like there won't be other nights after tonight, and that's not a possibility Sam's willing to consider.

Sam watches the sun go down, cataloguing its too-rapid descent with something like resentment. Two-thirds of the orange ball hovers above the horizon, then one-half, a quarter, a sliver. He watches until the moment it winks out behind the earth, and tries to hold back the encroaching dread. So much for Day 364.

"Dude, I'm _starving,_" Dean says, and flips past an episode of M.A.S.H. As attempts to break the tension go, it's pretty feeble, and Sam isn't in a generous mood.

Sam doesn't say anything, but he glares and gets up, goes to his bag and digs out a pouch of Cheetos he bought from a vending machine two towns back. "Here," he offers, and tosses the bag at Dean's head.

Dean raises his hand to deflect it moments before it would have bounced off his face. He picks it up off the mattress with a sour look and says with a half-assed attempt at surliness, "You know, even prisoners on death row get a last meal request."

And just like that the floodgates open.

Too many emotions suddenly surge through his veins and overwhelm him. Sam's vision goes dark and light with the head rush. "This is _not_ your last meal!" he roars, whirling on Dean with a voice ragged around the edges. "This is not your last sunset, or your last night alive, or your last _anything!_" For one terrifying second, the promise feels hollow, and Sam thinks he's going to be sick.

"Sam—" Dean starts, and his voice is so fucking soft and _anguished_ that Sam wants to punch him in the mouth.

"No, Dean! You're not doing this," Sam protests. "How can you just give up?"

Dean swallows, stands, moves like he's going to reach for Sam, but he never does. For a long time, there is only the sound of Sam breathing hard through flared nostrils. He can feel his lips quivering. Dean breaks the silence with that damn quiet voice, the same one their dad always used that made Sam feel like he was less than two feet tall, the one Dean only uses in the really horrible arguments. "Sammy, I knew what the score was when I made the deal. I would have made the deal if she wanted my soul right that _second._ But instead I got to have an entire year with you. That's a year more than I could have had. Two more than I _should_ have had. More than I deserved."

Sam's hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, fingers bending one by one, pinky to thumb. He just stares at Dean for a good five seconds, and then he lands a hard right hook to Dean's jaw that sends his brother reeling backwards. "That's _bullshit!_" Sam yells, pointing an accusing finger and ignoring the way the blood rushes to his knuckles, making them throb. "So you get a couple extra years. Good for you!" He can't even force fake cheer into the comment. "Did you even stop to consider how many years I'll be spending without _you?_ Without Dad? Without _anyone?_"

Dean cradles his jaw in one hand, works his mouth open and closed a few times to test out the damage. Apparently satisfied that his jaw's not broken, Dean levels a dangerous glare at Sam and growls, "What do you want from me Sammy? Huh? I did this for you!"

"No, you did this for yourself! You made your choice without even thinking about what it would do to me, you selfish son of a bitch!"

The next thing Sam knows he's slammed up against the wall, air forced from his lungs in a rush and Dean's fists in his shirt. "You're calling _me_ selfish? Can we take a step back and look at the facts for a minute? I sold my soul to a _demon_ for you, Sam! So sue me if I think you deserve a _life!_"

And god, Dean _still_ doesn't get it. A fresh swell of frustration has Sam pushing back. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and there's a brief scuffle before Sam gains the upper hand, using his greater height to twist Dean's wrist behind his back and push him to the ground. Dean huffs angrily into the carpet. Sam shoves one bony knee into his brother's back, holding him down, forcing him to hear. "What did you expect me to do, Dean? Did you think I'd just give up hunting, go back to college like nothing ever happened? I can't do that! I'm not like you! I can't just give up!" Sam leans his weight into Dean, hoping he understands what Sam means. _'You're all I have in the world. There's nothing left for me if I lose you. I don't know what I'd do.'_

Dean squirms out of Sam's grip, uses his free hand as leverage against the floor. He manages to flip them both over, pinning Sam with his weight heavy on Sam's chest. He holds Sam's arms at his sides and breathes angrily in his face. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to fight!"

Dean looks like Sam punched him in the gut, and Sam hates that he immediately feels guilty. Dean has never hesitated to give Sam whatever he could, but he won't give him this. "I can't. I can't do it, Sammy," Dean says. "You know I can't." And suddenly it's like Sam's stepped twelve years into the past. Dean is wearing the same look, the _exact_ same look he'd given Sam when Dad had taken Dean on his first real hunt and he'd been forced to leave his kid brother at home unprotected—_alone_—for god only knew how long. It's the same guilt, the same fucked up sense of duty. It was the moment that an angry, scared thirteen year old boy decided to leave, to go to college, to get away from the abandonment and loneliness he'd felt as he watched Dean walk away. Now he just wants to do what he couldn't do then, to hold tight, to do _anything_ to make Dean stay.

Sam winds his fists into Dean's shirt as if he can physically hold Dean's soul in place. "_Dean,_" he begs, voice thick with so many emotions he feels like he's choking.

Above him, Dean swallows hard. There's a moment where Dean looks like he's in so much physical pain he's barely restraining the urge to scream, and then his brother's lips are on his, firm and desperate.

Sam can only utter a soft exhalation of surprise before kissing his brother back tentatively and a little bewildered. It softens Dean's desperation, but it leaves Sam with a million thoughts running through his head, nearly all of them questions. The kiss is just a distant blur of sensation until Dean pulls back, and Sam finds he instantly misses it. He didn't realize how soft and warm Dean's lips were until they were gone. He didn't know how comforting it felt to share Dean's breath until he was too far away. He didn't understand how much he needed the taste of Dean on his tongue until Dean was looking down at him, shock and horror evident in his features.

"Sammy, I didn't—" is as far as Dean gets before Sam wraps one hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him into a hungry kiss. He works to softly pry Dean's lips apart, and when he slips his tongue into Dean's mouth Sam hears him make a noise that Dean would stubbornly insist is not a whimper. Sam feels the tension melt out of his brother's body, and he arches up into the soft heat. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss and a groan lights up his chest as Dean matches the angle perfectly and pushes back with just the right amount of pressure.

One of Dean's hands is cradling the back of Sam's head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the other is clutching in spasms at Sam's hip. Sam thinks he might explode, his mind and heart are so full of thoughts like _safe_, and _home_, and _alive_. He scratches his nails lightly over the back of Dean's neck at the same time he lets his other hand sneak up under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, fingertips grazing the inch of warm skin at the base of his brother's spine. Dean breaks the kiss and sucks in a breath like he's just been burned, but he doesn't pull away. He rests his forehead against Sam's and doesn't open his eyes, just breathes harshly from a mouth poised within easy reach. Sam knows his brother well enough to know that it's his way of saying if someone's going to stop this, it has to be Sam, and it has to be now.

And god, this is wrong, it should _feel_ wrong, but it doesn't. Neither of them seem to care. Maybe Dean doesn't care because he thinks he's leaving, already on his way to Hell, what's one more sin born of comfort? But Sam doesn't care because it means Dean's _here,_ he's not going anywhere as long as Sam's touching him, and if this is what it takes to make Dean stay then Sam will gladly risk the fires of Hell to be with his brother.

Sam splays his palm flat against the skin of Dean's back and presses his body up into Dean's, lifts his mouth to Dean's like he's intent on devouring him. Dean lets out a broken moan and kisses back just as fervently, and Sam's shattered by the knowledge of how much they both need this.

Driven by impulse, Sam hooks one leg over Dean's hip and shoves, flipping Dean onto his back. He immediately descends on Dean's neck, sucking and scraping blunt teeth over the sensitive skin of his throat. Dean throws his head back with a gasp, swallows hard and Sam can feel his Adam's apple bob under his lips. Dean's hands slide down to cup Sam's ass and he pulls their hips together, erections dragging hotly through the fabric of their jeans. "Bed," Dean grounds out through clenched teeth, voice thick and husky.

It takes a major force of will, but Sam levers himself up off the floor and away from Dean. He pulls Dean up before he can protest, clutches at him like he's afraid to let him go, terrified of what might happen if he stops touching Dean for too long. He shoves his hands up the back of Dean's shirt, seeking more skin. He's torn between the need to strip Dean out of his clothes and the need to not stop touching Dean, not ever. The decision is taken out of Sam's hands when Dean reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his necklace dangling against his bare chest. Then he pushes Sam's many layers up his torso and peels them all off at once. Sam's long limbs get tangled for a minute, and as he struggles with his arms above his head Dean leans in to kiss his chest.

Dean's lips and hands on his naked skin elicit a breathy gasp from Sam's throat, and Dean flicks his tongue out to taste Sam's skin. Sam shakily wrestles his arms the rest of the way out of his clothes, using his newfound freedom to cup Dean's face just as Dean wraps his lips around Sam's nipple. Sam's head falls back in a sigh as Dean's hot, slick tongue circles the sensitive nub. Then Dean is making his way back up Sam's body, dragging wet kisses along his chest, his neck, and when Dean finally finds Sam's mouth again he is overwhelmed by a rush of white hot need.

Sam practically lifts Dean into the air before he topples them both with a crash onto the squeaky motel mattress. Dean lets out a muffled, "Oomph," as Sam's weight lands on top of him. Sam starts fumbling and apologizing and Dean just smiles and laughs at him, honest to god _laughs_, and it's been months since Sam's heard that. He leans over to kiss Dean, to swallow that sound, to keep it forever and let it warm him from the inside out.

Sam kisses Dean like he's trying to crawl inside him, like he's searching for something vital that can only be found in Dean's lips, his hands, his mouth. It makes Sam's bones melt and he offers no resistance when Dean rolls him onto his back and starts pulling at the button of his jeans. Sam tries to undo Dean's pants with fumbling fingers before finally growing impatient and just shoving one broad hand under the waistband of Dean's boxers. Dean gasps as Sam palms his cock inside his pants. Three or four slow strokes and Dean is hurriedly tugging off his own pants, boxers and all, revealing his flushed, hard cock. Sam runs his hand up the shaft, thumbs the wetness at the tip, and is rewarded with Dean's full-body shudder.

Sam awkwardly shimmies and kicks the rest of the way out of his own pants, then grabs hold of Dean's shoulders. He flips Dean back over, lines their bodies up perfectly and grinds his hips down into Dean's and _holy fuck_. This is exactly what Sam needs. Dean hard and perfect beneath him, Dean's body blanketed with Sam's own, and nothing, _nothing_ can touch Dean when Sam's covering him like a protective shield.

They thrust against each other, never moving their hips apart, just sliding, not letting anything come between them but heat and friction and the fluttering electric jolt when their cocks brush together just right. Dean brings Sam's hand to his flushed lips and sucks the first two fingers into his mouth. Sam swears he can feel every single one of Dean's taste buds as his tongue traces the loops and whorls of Sam's fingerprints. When Sam's fingers are coated thick with slippery saliva, Dean plants the sole of one foot firmly on the bed and pulls Sam's fingers from his mouth. He loosely guides Sam's hand down between his parted legs, unerringly finding his own entrance and hissing in a breath when Sam hesitantly teases it.

Dean is wearing an expression of such open, raw need that Sam forgets to breathe. And then Dean pushes Sam's slick fingers inside, arches his head back and moans, and Sam can't restrain the matching groan he buries in Dean's neck. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's biceps hard enough to bruise. Sam's fingers are buried knuckle-deep in the tight heat of his brother's body, and his cock is throbbing heavily in the soft groove of Dean's hip. He wants this so much, wants all of it, all of _Dean_, and he wants it forever.

Sam knows he's close. He quickly licks his palm and sits back long enough to slick up his cock with saliva and precome, then positions himself at Dean's entrance and pushes slowly inside. The tight, soft heat of his brother's body feels like quicksilver in his veins. Dean's arms come up to wrap around Sam's ribs like a pair of iron bands and he mutters a breathless, "_Fuck_, oh, _god,_" into Sam's hair.

Sam presses his palms flat against the backs of Dean's shoulders where they curve up off the bed, the weight of Dean's body trapping them there. They stay like that, just holding each other, until finally Sam moves his hips in a stuttering thrust. Sam's spit is just barely enough lubrication and the rough slide makes Dean throw his head back against the pillow and suck in a shuddering breath. Sam leans over to kiss Dean's panting mouth, and Dean's legs hitch up to wrap around his waist. Dean pulls him impossibly closer, like he can't hold Sam tightly enough, and Sam tightens his grip in return. Dean's necklace is trapped between their chests, digging into Sam's skin. His thrusts become frantic, desperate with need, and Dean arches into every one like it's the last thing he'll ever feel.

And suddenly it's like Sam's chest is split open and bleeding. He's pouring everything into Dean, not holding anything back, and Dean gives him everything in return, always has and always will, even when he has nothing left to give. Their limbs are wrapped around each other, and Sam thinks that maybe if they're too tangled together, if it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins, the hellhounds won't be able to drag Dean away. Sam is making small, pained noises in the back of his throat, and Dean's fingernails dig sharp crescents into the skin of Sam's back. Finally, too soon, Dean curls his body around Sam's and comes, uttering Sam's name like a broken, ragged sob into the cradle of Sam's shoulder. Sam comes a moment later and it feels like his heart is breaking.

Sam doesn't pull out right away, and neither of them loosen their grip on the other. Sam's terrified of losing Dean, and with the way Dean is clinging desperately to Sam, his entire body trembling, Sam knows Dean doesn't want to give this up. It gives him hope.

Dean abruptly shoves Sam off and turns away, curling up like a child on the other side of the bed with his back to Sam, muscles suddenly tense. There's a second where Sam reels from the sudden loss of contact, and then he shifts determinedly towards Dean's closed-off frame. Sam wraps himself around Dean's back, matches all the curves and angles where they fit. He kisses Dean's shoulder, the nape of his neck, then whispers stubbornly, "I'm not letting you go."

Dean doesn't say anything. He just interlocks his fingers with Sam's hand on his stomach, presses back a little against Sam's chest, and lets himself be held.

Afterwards, they don't sleep. They just lie there together, wide awake, waiting. There is a moment where Dean tenses, and Sam wonders if it means the hellhounds have arrived, scratching at the door. Sam closes his eyes and prays that his wards hold up. He realizes it's the first time he's prayed today.

Sam doesn't want to break the silence. There's something comforting about the stillness of it, like if they don't move, if they barely even breathe, time will just recede into the background. They can stay like this, frozen, static, and morning will never come.

The curtains over the motel window are drawn against what lies outside these four walls, like they can shut out the passage of time, but they still let in cracks of light. Sam watches the dim glow go from streetlight yellow to hazy, predawn grey to the rosy lilac of sunrise, and each changing shade tightens the coil in Sam's belly. Each ticking second is stolen by some unseen force, cold bony fingers pulling on time like an unraveling thread, making it harder and harder for Sam to sit still.

Eventually Sam's need to _do_ something outweighs his need to hold on to the fantasy of this moment. "Dean," he says, and his voice seems loud in the wake of the long silence. There's no rumbling grunt in answer, and Sam wonders if Dean's just being stubborn or if he's too distracted by the sound of the hellhounds to hear Sam's voice. "Dean," he says again, this time mumbling his words into the back of Dean's neck. "I know you don't want to leave, but we have to go. I can't just stay here and wait for - …I can't."

Dean still doesn't respond, and now he's starting to piss Sam off. "Dean," Sam says, this time letting a little of his frustration bleed through, and he sits up on one elbow to aim a glare at Dean's face. His features are pale and slack in a way Sam's never seen before, even in sleep. Something ugly nudges at the back of Sam's mind.

"Dean?" he asks in a voice too small and terrified to possibly be his own. He realizes that while the skin where their bodies have been touching is warm, everywhere else is cold. His hand slides from Dean's stomach to his chest—and while some part of Sam knows he won't find anything he still keeps his hand there for what seems like an eternity, waiting to feel Dean's heart beating beneath his palm.

"No."

Sam sits up, takes Dean by the shoulders and shakes him, hard. "Dean, wake up. _Wake up,_ you son of a bitch!" Dean's head rolls limply on the pillow. Sam takes it in his hands, holds it still. "Please wake up, Dean. God, please. I can't—Dean, _please._" Sam's voice breaks into choking sobs, and he buries his face in Dean's neck—_no pulse, so cold, gone_—and holds his brother's body tight—_gone, alone, no, please, no, damn it, come back, what have you done?_

Sam doesn't know how long he lies there, holding Dean, rocking back and forth in a slightly manic motion while he mutters nonsense pleas into cold, grey skin. He feels everything slipping away, everything that doesn't matter. Time, reality, perception, even bits of his sanity, each one bleeds away, leaving a yawning chasm in his chest. Distantly, as if from somewhere unconnected to himself, he feels the mattress dip behind him under someone's weight, feels fingers in his hair, long nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a soothing gesture that makes his skin crawl. He doesn't twitch away. He's lost too much of himself to muster the energy. "Shh, sweetheart. There, there."

Sam won't release his hold on Dean to turn and see her face, but he doesn't need to. He can feel the Demon's presence like cold rippling energy in the air. "Give him back," he says, voice foreign to his own ears.

She makes a clicking noise of disapproval with her tongue. "You Winchesters, always so demanding. Didn't your father ever teach you boys any manners?"

Sam's throat is tight. "You took him. You didn't even give him the full day."

She sighs and strokes the back of his neck. "It wouldn't have made it any easier, sugar." Her voice is a cold mockery of sympathy. "Besides, it wasn't my idea to do it this way." She leans close to whisper in his ear. "You really should have checked those dust lines before crawling into bed with your brother." The last word comes out like a gleeful sneer.

Somewhere very far away there is a sluggish realization in Sam's mind, and he freezes. She notices, laughs lightly in the back of her throat. "What did you think Dean was doing all that time while your back was turned? He knew we had a deal. If he let you keep me away, I'd have no choice but to see it as trying to break our deal. He couldn't forfeit your life, and he knew you wouldn't ever voluntarily let him hold up his end of the bargain. One boot toe in the corner was all it took." She runs one darkly painted nail up the outside of Sam's arm, and he instinctively tightens his hold on Dean's lifeless body. "I'm surprised you didn't see this coming. Or maybe you were just too busy fucking your brother to notice," she purrs, and something sick twists in Sam's gut. "Well, twenty-twenty hindsight, I suppose." She runs one hand down Sam's exposed side but stops before she reaches the sheet at his waist. Her touch is scalding and proprietary, as if she's examining the merchandise before making an offer. It makes Sam shudder, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps his body wrapped around Dean's protectively, shielding him from her presence, as if the damage hasn't already been done.

Her lips press against the shell of his ear, burning the skin like a hot brand. Her voice is a low, seductive hiss as she says, "He cried when I took him. I snatched his soul out right from under your nose, and you never even noticed. He never stopped thinking of you, the entire time I dragged him down to Hell."

Sam moves before the thought can even form in his head. His hands are around her throat, rage feeding his strength, fingers gripping tight enough to snap her neck with just a flick of his wrist. He can feel his face twist, his features mangled in fury and desperation. "_Bring him back._"

Her smug expression doesn't waver, and she speaks clearly despite the fact that Sam's thumbs are crushing her windpipe. "Well, since you asked so nicely." She lifts one eyebrow and gives him an appraising look. "I'd much rather have your soul than his, anyway."

He wants so badly just to squeeze and twist, to hear the satisfying crack of bone, to feel the flesh warp under his fingers, even if he suspects it won't do him any good. The darkness inside his chest is goading him, stirred to life at his rage. It's scratching at the insides of his ribs, trying to claw its way to the surface, but he can still feel Dean's cold weight pressing against his side and it grounds him.

Sam releases his grip. She smiles, wide and pleased. "I always knew you were the smart one." She runs the pad of her thumb just under Sam's bottom lip. "Mmm. Since I like you…how does another ten years sound? I might even be tempted to make it twenty if you ask _real_ nice. I can be patient, when I need to be. And I have a feeling your soul will just ripen with age, like a fine wine." The corner of her mouth twitches upwards. "And your brother would be all yours. In every. Possible. Way."

The words sound dirty and vile in her mouth, but Sam swallows hard and meets her gaze steadily. His raw, aching _need_ wars with the knowledge that Dean would never forgive him, that this is exactly the reason Dean wanted Sam to make that promise in the first place. Ten years—even twenty years—isn't nearly enough time, but it's more than what Sam has now. All Sam has now is a gaping black void where his brother used to be. He feels hollow.

She seems to sense his struggle and tries to nudge him towards the edge. "This is a limited time offer, honey. Your brother won't last forever down there, not with what they're doing to him." Sam clenches his jaw at the thought, feels his control slipping at the knowledge that Dean willingly walked into horrors neither of them could possibly imagine, even with all they've seen. Dean let this bitch take him, and he did it for Sam. The darkness scrapes its spidery talons insistently along Sam's spine, reminding Sam what he's capable of when it comes to Dean, when it's Dean's soul hanging in the balance. If Dean's willing to walk into Hell for Sam, then maybe Sam is willing to do the same for him.

He feels the darkness inside him roar in triumph, like it knows something Sam doesn't.

She cocks her head at him, mildly curious, maybe sensing his weakness. "How many times do you think they'll have to rip him apart down there before he forgets you? Or better yet, starts to hate you, blame you for what they're doing to him. If only he'd left you for dead, like he should have…" The darkness inside howls and writhes. It grows until it presses against the inside of Sam's skin, trying to split him open. "How long do you think it'll be before there's nothing left of your brother to bring back?" She shrugs then, and says blandly, "But I suppose if you want to leave him like that, it's your choice."

Something inside Sam snaps. Rage and desperation give way to clarity. He can't leave Dean down there, could never just abandon his brother to Hell and walk away. Sam knows what he has to do, but it's not the decision he expected to make. He heaves a breath, exhales, and lets the darkness take him.

It feels like spikes digging into his brain, tearing it apart. A surge of power unlike anything on earth shoots down his spine like lightning, a white hot, euphoric rush of pain that rockets out to every nerve ending in his body. As fast as it ripped through him it's gone, leaving his body singing with dark pleasure, the power crackling along his skin.

Heedless of his nudity he stands, and she rises with him. They look at each other, and while before he had been angry, desperate and helpless in her presence, he now sees her for what she is: pathetic and weak. She doesn't even recognize the change, still thinks she's a cat with a mouse between her paws. "I'm not leaving him there," Sam says. "I want him back."

She smiles and steps towards him, lips hovering inches away from his, as if what she's offering is even the least bit enticing. "So we have a deal?"

Sam's lips twitch in amusement. He leans close enough for her to feel his breath when he whispers, "Not a chance in Hell." Her smile falters, goes brittle, and Sam can see the hint of fear in her eyes. Then Sam takes a step back and opens his mind.

The pulse of energy explodes outward like the shock wave of an atom bomb, crashing into her, ripping into her flesh like a violent wind. She holds her hands up against the onslaught and screams, an unholy shriek that Sam hopes they can hear all the way down in Hell. He tears her apart slowly, shredding her flesh to reveal nothing but oily blackness inside, bits of her evaporating in puffs of black smoke as they're ripped away. Sam doesn't just exorcise her, he annihilates her, and he doesn't just enjoy it, he revels in it, in the intoxicatingly sweet power coursing through his veins. When he's done there's nothing left but a black crater in the carpet. Sam examines it with a kind of pleased, clinical detachment, then catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair is wild, his face flushed and panting, his chest rising and falling with each quick breath. His skin is practically glowing, and his expression is blissed out, satiated, but hungry. Sam wonders if this is what he looks like after really good sex.

His eyes, once a deep forest green, are now a hazy yellow.

Sam doesn't care, though. He's drunk on power, dizzy with it. He feels like he can do anything. He has the power to control, create, and destroy as he sees fit. He can rule and command the things he once hunted, once feared. This is what the Demon always meant him to be.

He turns, catches sight of Dean on the bed, pale and grey, and suddenly it's like he's looking up from the bottom of a lake. He sees himself standing at the surface, looking down with yellow eyes, the vision rippling with the waves. The dark water surrounds him, fills his lungs, pulls him under. The light from the surface fades, and he knows he's sinking deeper. It's like his body is filled with lead. It's so tempting to give in, to let the darkness drag him so deep he can never find the surface, but Sam thinks _no, Dean wouldn't want this._

He struggles against the weight of the water, the weight of his own body, and pushes his way towards the surface. His muscles strain and groan and his lungs are on fire, but he still fights his way upward. It feels like forever before he breaks the surface and takes a breath.

Sam comes back to reality to find himself huddled on all fours sucking down deep lungfuls of air. He feels weak and his entire body is shaking, but he can still feel the buzz of barely restrained power just under the surface. He stands on wobbly legs and looks in the mirror again. His eyes are green.

Sam knows what happened, knows what the darkness is. The Yellow-Eyed Demon put something in him. Not a full demon, exactly, but maybe a part of himself or his power. Whatever it is, it was buried inside him for most of his life. After he came back from the dead it was so much stronger, pushing and prodding at his unconscious mind. Maybe it was when the Demon touched his soul to resurrect him that she triggered it, empowered it, fused it to him somehow, and now it's become a part of him, intrinsically linked to his soul, something that can't be cut out without taking most of Sam with it. It's the place inside that he draws his powers from, and when Sam let it take over he tapped into all that power and darkness.

But it didn't take him completely, even though Sam knows it should have consumed him. Sam held on too tightly to lose himself and he doesn't hold any illusions about what kept him fighting so hard.

He half walks, half crawls to Dean's body. He props himself shakily on the edge of the bed, then reaches out to slowly close his fingers around the charm on Dean's necklace to grip it with white knuckles. He leans over and places a soft, lingering kiss against Dean's icy lips. "Hold on, Dean. I'm on my way," he grits out and gives the charm a sharp tug to break the chain.

Ten minutes later, he's dressed and in the Impala. He doesn't have far to go. Some part of him must have known where he needed to be, or maybe someone up there had offered a little divine guidance, because it turns out the directions he gave Dean weren't as aimless as he thought. Wyoming is less than an hour away, and the Colt sits heavy and empty in his lap.

When Sam reaches the cemetery his feet guide him without thought towards the crypt. He doesn't hesitate, just shoves the gun into the lock. The ancient gears work with an ominous grinding of metal. Sam grasps tightly at Dean's charm around his neck, uses it as a touchstone to maintain control as he opens his mind to the darkness. The electric jolt of power courses through him and he prepares for the gates to open.

So, yeah, desperation has made Sam do some crazy things—like lie, and kill, and follow his brother down into the depths of Hell.

The gates burst open with an explosion of heat, but Sam's ready. He holds the demonic onslaught back with the force of his mind and even though they growl and struggle and slash at his control with their rage, Sam's focus is single-minded. As the hot rush of air blasts at his face he steps over the threshold. Sam can feel the spirits and demons clawing at him, gouging at his flesh and his mind. His wounds knit back together immediately only to be opened again and again. He bares his teeth, stumbles forward through the writhing mob, and descends down through the maddening heat and the pain ripping at his soul. The gates clang closed behind him but Sam can barely hear it over the howls and piercing screams.

He needs to find Dean. Sam may not have been able to stop the Demon from taking his brother, but he'll be damned if he'll let them keep him. Now it's Sam's turn to pull Dean's ass from the fire, because either he's coming back with his brother or he's not coming back at all.

~

**He drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,  
and made Hell grant what Love did seek.**

_ [The Myth of Orpheus and Eurydice](http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/eurydice/eurydicemyth.html) _

~

_   
**Finding Eurydice**   
_


End file.
